"Well, now looky, little brother," Arlie began uncomfortably. "I, uh, ain't real sure that, uh—"
"You don't think it's a good idea? Well, maybe you're right. I'll just step over to the bank and buy checks with the money."
"Well, uh..."
Arlie wasn't sure that that was a good idea either. Naturally stealing checks would do him no good. On the other hand, he obviously had no "good' ideas of his own, i.e., some scheme for appropriating the prize which he had been nominated to protect.
"Well, all right," he said, at last, his voice very grumpy. "But dang it, Critch, you be watchin' out, yourself! That money gets stole off of you, Paw'll nail my hide to the barn door!"
"Oh, I'll be careful," Critch promised. "I've always believed that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."
"You have, huh? Me, I've always believed that shit stinks."
"Something wrong?" Critch asked innocently. "Did I say something to offend you?"
Looking back on the moment later, he would curse himself roundly for his smugness; wondering how he could ever have forgotten that Arlie was an expert at dissembling, that the way he acted was not necessarily indicative of the way he felt. At the time, however...
"Shouldn't we be getting checked in at the hotel?" he suggested. "I'd like to clean up, and get a bite to eat."
Arlie nodded curtly, and gulped down the rest of his drink. "Well, let's get goin'. No sense in—" He broke off frowning, then reached out and plucked at Critch's coat. "Damned if you ain't bustin' out at the seams, boy."
"What?"
"Looky," Arlie pointed. "Can't see it unless you sorta stretch your shoulders a certain way, but—Why, by damn, there's another place! An' here's another one. An' another one, an'—I never seen nothin' like it! A whole mess of little gapes at the seams, like maybe the threads had been cut."
Critch looked; turned slowly around to examine himself in the back-bar mirror. He looked at Arlie, now frowning at him in innocent concern.
"That coat's sure one helluva mess, little brother. You suppose maybe you could make the tailor give you your money back?"
"I hardly think so," Critch said.
"Well, anyways, I sure hope you didn't lose no money out of all them little holes. I sure hope nothin' like that happened."
"Now, what ever gave you that idea?" Critch said. ''You sneaky son-of-a-bitch!"'
And he suddenly slugged his brother.
That was a mistake, of course. He was simply no match for the brawny, ranch-toughened Arlie. The latter rocked with his blow, absorbing it harmlessly. Then, after a moment of ducking and dodging, of attempting to pacify Critch, he knocked him cold with a single punch.
Arlie picked him up from the floor, draped him across his shoulder. Carrying Critch's hat in his free hand, he headed toward the hotel; stopping once along the way when he was accosted by Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen. Madsen was officially curious about Critch's condition. Arlie said he just couldn't understand it himself.
"Why, we was talkin' and drinkin' just as friendly as you please, when all "t once he tried t' slug me. Called me a real dirty name, too. Hate to think I had a brother that couldn't hold his whiskey, but it sure looks that way, don't it?"
Madsen nodded drily. "Can't have a King like that, now, can we? But I reckon you'll see to his reformin'."
"Oh, I will, I will," Arlie promised. "Why, I'll bet you won't even know ol' Critch the next time you see him. No, sir, you won't even know him!"
Chapter Five
In the weed-grown right-of-way, Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson found a rusty shovel-blade, its handle broken off, a discard from some section-crew's tool box. With it, she scooped out a grave in the track roadbed, and buried Anne's body deep within it.
It was almost full daylight by the time she had finished. Dusting her hands, she looked around the countryside; at the rutty road on one side of the tracks, the prairie farmland on the other. She decided against the road almost immediately: she had to know 'where' she was going before attempting to go anywhere. A chance to reconnoiter, to think was the first order of the day, and that meant finding a safe place to hole-up.
She leaped the right-of-way ditch, climbed over the two-strand fence. With the nearly flat terrain, she could see for several miles; and her shrewd eyes correctly interpreted what she saw. No smoke came from the chimneys of the house immediately beyond the field in which she now stood, nor was there any sign of life around the several adjacent farm buildings. But she would have known that without looking. The field, with its three-year-old wheat stubble, itself told her that the farm was abandoned.
A sandy-loam soil, repeatedly planted to the same cereal crop. Try that for a few years, and see what happened to your farm!
Ethel and Anne Anderson had been the daughters of a farmer. He had incestuously begun their education in sex, a fact which considerably accounted for their cold-blooded treatment of men in later years. Except for sex he had taught them nothing—unless it was that greed and ignorance are poor tools for a farmer.
Year after year, he had planted the same soil-robbing crops. Ignoring the warnings in the gradually decreasing yields. Fertilizing scantily, if at all; giving the depleted land no chance for restful fallowing. And then, when the once-good earth would no longer bear, he had cursed it for the worthlessness which he himself had brought to it—and begun to cast about for still more land to ruin.
'Well, he'd died happy, Ethel thought grimly. Got the hatchet in his head, right while he was pouring it on Little Sis.'
Ethel had planned on going back to farming at some vague time in the future, and Anne had appeared to go along with the idea. Ethel had even decided that their farm—large, well-equipped and completely modern—would be in Oklahoma. The new land offered a good place to lose a bad past. Also, many newcomers would be carrying their fortunes with them. And currency of large denomination—the one kind which would permit a fortune to be conveniently and inconspicuously carried—would not arouse the suspicion in the Territory that it might elsewhere.
With their ultimate goal in mind, Ethel had periodically left the roadhouse for visits to various cities, where the loot which she and her sister had acquired through murder was converted into big bills. It was while she was away on one of these trips that Anne had skipped out, taking their combined swag with her.
By this time, however, following the dictates of her older sister had become second-nature with Anne. She did it unconsciously, without realizing that she was doing it. So inevitably, she had eventually headed into the Territory, just as Ethel had been sure she would. And Ethel had promptly taken note of her arrival in Tulsa—though not, as it turned out, quite promptly enough. That fancy-pants dude had gotten to Little Sis first.
Reaching the yard of the abandoned farm, Ethel drank and washed at the well, then inspected herself as best she could in her small pocket mirror.
Her face, hands and other exposed portions of her body were stained in semblance of a deep tan. Her hair was cropped short. She wore loose-fitting men's clothes—bib overalls and jumper, blue workshirt, and a battered felt hat. To all appearances, she was a casual laborer or farm hand, a role she had successfully played for weeks. A role she would continue to play, until and unless—well, no matter. She would know when the time came.
Revealing herself as a woman was tied-in with finding a satisfactory place to hole-up—plus. A place from which she could safely go about recovering that seventy-two thousand dollars. For never for a moment did she consider not recovering it. Acquiring it had cost more than thirty lives, and she was ready to gamble her own life in getting it back.
Leaving the abandoned farm, she trudged off across the prairie, steering wide of any occupied farms; thinking back on the dude who had bilked Little Sis, and gotten away.
She had seen the guy somewhere before, Ethel was sure. At one time or another, they had been in the same criminal haunt at the same time, and he had been pointed out to her. Not only that but his name had been mentioned??
?and naturally it wasn't Crittenden, as he had told Little Sis. But it was a similar sounding name. Something like Crissfeld or Crittenwell, or...well, a real fancy handle. Whether it was his first name or last, she couldn't remember. But the other name (whether first or last) had been fairly common; too ordinary to stick in her memory. But if she could just bring it back, associate one name with the other...
'And I will, Ethel confidently assured herself. I'll remember the bastard's right name in full. I'll catch up with him, and he'd better have that money when I do!'
The sun was almost directly overhead when she at last found the kind of place she was looking for. One that seemingly offered not only refuge, but help as well. She studied it from a distance, a farm with well-tilled fields, and substantial outbuildings, but a house that could not possibly contain more than one room. She was too far away to tell much about the farmer, except that he was bearded and somewhat heavyset. Apparently, however, he lived alone—as he had to, for her purposes. So by noontime, after some inner debate, and after he had unhitched his team from their plough and led them into the barn, she had come to a favorable decision about him.
He was in the house eating when she appeared in the doorway, a man in his middle forties with a dull Teutonic face. He stood up, blinking at her stupidly, brushing food from his mouth with a sleeve.
"Yah?" he said. "Vot iss, mister?"
Ethel laughed, dropping her masquerade huskiness of voice. "Not mister, honey. You got wife, woman?"
"No got. Vy iss your business?"
"Well, now, you just have a look and see," Ethel said.
She crossed to a corner of the room, where a strawtick resting on some nailed-together two-by-fours did duty as a bed. Casually, she removed her clothes, stood naked before him.
A glazed look had come into his eyes; a trace of spittle coursed from the corner of his mouth. But he remained cautious.
"Vy?" he said; then, "How much?"
"No money," Ethel smiled. "Nothing that you can't handle."
"Yah?"
"Yah. So come on and have a sample. I'll clear out afterwards, if you don't want me to stay."
She stretched out on the bed, opened her arms and legs to him. The farmer—his name was Gutzman—emphatically declared, after an hour's sampling, that he wanted her to stay. He wanted her to stay forever and ever, and he would say nothing of her presence to anyone (no one ever visited him, anyway). And if her brute husband from Nebraska should come looking for her, he, Gutzman, would kill him on the spot.
"Good care I take of you, little Greta," he promised, hugging her to him. "Vot you ask, I do."
He meant it, although she had little to ask of him for the time being. In his attentiveness, his anxiety to please her, she became bored to the point of screaming. But she did not scream, of course, but wisely pretended to reciprocate his feelings. And tasting such wonders as he had never known, as he had believed it impossible to know, Gutzman almost sobbed in gratitude.
He had never experienced love, or even liking. Hungry for talk, he was barred from it by an inability to communicate. So always he was the mute stranger in any group, drinking in the tantalizing words of others. Always, he was the outsider, the man doomed to stand apart from those who talked and laughed. Many times he had tried to become one of them, grinning and nodding hopefully when they cast him a glance. Breathlessly wedging in on their conversation with blurted-out remarks. But his eagerness, his anxiety to please, seemed only to heighten the wall which life had built round him. People drew further away from him, leaving his statements hanging in the air unremarked. Taking little note of his existence, except for sly glances and secretive whispers.
Now, however, everything was different. His little Greta '(Ethel)' had made it so. Within her loins, he had found far more than release for his pent-up seed. In this, the ultimate gift of her body, there had been reassurance, a bolstering of his ego, an unqualified declaration of his desirability. And Hans Gutzman burst out of his shell to at last become part of life.
After a few days, he could even accept Ethel's acid-edged ribbing without feeling rebuffed. He was a little shocked by her language sometimes, but delightfully so; looking upon it as yet another naughtily charming gift from this woman of all women.
"Take it easy, Gutzy," she would say, "you horny old son-of-a-bitch. Those are my tits you're squeezing, not a couple of stacks of cowshit."
'"Hee, hee!"—'a shocked giggle from Gutzman. "You badt girl, Greta. Maybe I spank your bottom, ya?"
"Why not? You've done every other goddamn thing to it."
'"Good' badt girl, my Greta. Maybe I saddle horses tonight. Ve take nice ride, yah?"
"Yah. Now you're talkin', Gutzy."
The horseback rides became nightly occurrences. Sometimes they lasted for hours, Gutzman jabbering on endlessly about the places they passed and the places beyond; who lived here or there or over there. Telling her everything he knew—since she seemed greatly interested—about the various towns and villages.
So, at last, amidst the unsorted dross of his chattering, Ethel found gold. They had ridden unusually far that night, the end of her first week with him. Ethel had become very tired, and Gutzman mistook her weariness for boredom. Thus, fearful as always of losing her, he had humbly apologized for being poor company—for having so little to offer—and promised to relieve the monotony by taking her on a sightseeing trip.
"Not for more than a day it vould be, because of der animals. But ve could—"
"Oh, hell, Gutzy," Ethel yawned. "What's there to see around here?"
"Veil—veil, dere is, uh—"
"Yah?"
"Vell, hu—" Gutzman suddenly brightened, remembering. "Not so far to der vest, dere is dis very fonny place. It is owned by an old man, a vite man—a beeg ranch, almost a whole county it iss, mit a little town. But dis vite man, only Indians he has to vork for him. Hundreds of vild Indians."
"Honey," Ethel said. "I wouldn't walk across the street to watch an Indian screw himself in the ear."
"Iss fonny place," Gutzman insisted. "Dis old vite man, badt poys, he has. Oh, dey are very mean, dis old man's sons. Already, vun of dem has killed his brother. And now anudder son has come home, so—so, uh, vell—"
"That's funny, all right," Ethel said. "I'm weak from laughter."
"Iss called the Junction," Gutzman mumbled. "King's Junction. Der sons are—"
"King!" Ethel exclaimed, suddenly coming alive. "Critchfield King!"
Gutzman stared at her in the moonlight. At last nodded, frowning suspiciously. "Yah, dere is a poy named Critchfield. How you know?"
"I guessed it, you potbellied horse's ass!" Ethel laughed gaily. "I'm the best God damned little guesser in the world."
"But—guess you could not!"
"I just did, Gutzy. Iss so—yah?"
"No! You lie to me!"
Ethel looked at him coldly. She said, all right, if that was the way he wanted it. "But if that is the way you want it, Gutzy, you've just lost a bedmate. I'm moving out on you!"
"But—but, 'liebchick'. All I vant iss—"
"All you want," Ethel said, "is someone to screw all night, and listen to you all day, yah? And that's what I give you, yah? So if you want me to keep on giving it to you, Gutzy, you'd better pop to. When I tell you something, you'd God damned well better believe it, get me? You do it, or you'll be talking to yourself and skinning your dingus through a knothole."
"But—but—"
"No buts. You see that thing up there in the sky? You think that's a moon? Well, it's not, Gutzy. It's a solid-gold pisspot. The angels use it whenever they have to take a leak. Iss right, yah?"
Gutzman gulped painfully. He wet his lips, looking at the soft swelling of her breasts as she breathed; at the rich thighs, suggestively spread over the saddle.
"Well?" Ethel said. "Do you believe me or not? How about it? Are you going to have me or a knothole?"
Gutzman nodded feebly, his voice a mere whisper. "Yah. I believe."
&nb
sp; "Believe what?"
"Iss—iss no moon. Only solidt-gold pisspot."
"Good boy," Ethel smiled approvingly. "Now, we understand each other."
"And now you are mine, Greta? Alvays, you vill be mine?"
"Always," Ethel promised. "As long as you live..."
His head buried in his hands, Critch sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, grimly wishing that he could bury 'Arlie's' head (preferably in cement, and after severing it from his body), if for no other reason than to stop his brother's endless sympathizing. It was bad enough to have lost the seventy-two thousand dollars. But to have to listen to the woeful mourning of the man who had stolen it from him—well, that was too damned much to bear!
Arlie had been leaving him with sympathy for hours. Ever since he had carried Critch up to his room, and brought him back into consciousness. And how understanding, how forgiving, he had been over Critch's earlier attempt to slug him!
'Now, don't you fret none, little brother. Mighta done the same thing myself. Fella loses a lot o' money, he just naturally strikes out at anything near him.'
Critch reached down to the floor for the whiskey bottle; momentarily drowned out Arlie's voice in a long, gurgling drink. The drink emptied the bottle, and he pitched it into the wastebasket where also reposed his ruined coat.
"...awful lotta whiskey this afternoon." 'Arlie again, God damn him!' "Why'n't you let me get you somethin' to eat, Critch?"
"No," Critch said curtly. "I'll eat when I'm ready."
"But...well, all right. Reckon I'd feel the same way, in your place." Arlie shook his head sadly. "I sure feel sorry for you, Critch. Sure wish there was somethin' I could do for you."
"I wish there was something I could do for 'you,'' Critch said.
"Y'know," Arlie continued in a musing tone. "Y'know what I figure, Critch? I figure that money musta been stolen off of you after we left the marshal's office. Otherwise, Marshal Harry woulda spotted them slits in your coat, and wanted to know what was what."
"Well? What about it?"